“If you cook in a bad mood, the bad mood will season your food.” Now, had this been uttered by anyone else, I might have been interested in having a discussion about that statement – philosophical, scientific or silly. But irrational loathing got in the way and I wanted to kick her.
We were standing in the kitchen of a mutual friend, and trying to manage plates of food, forks and glasses. I remember little about the conversation, which was between a few of us, except for this statement made to me, which she followed up by telling us that, even on the worst of days, she cooked only with love and passion. Kicking her would have been the grown-up thing to do, rather than trying to come up with a reply, which didn’t actually come to mind until the next day. But even if it had turned up, it would have been too late: she had already mingled on and was leaning against the fridge patronising someone else.
In her book The Faraway Nearby, Rebecca Solnit quotes the philosopher Charles Griswold, who says, “Resentment is a storytelling passion.” Solnit observes how compelling resentment stories are. Like a camel harnessed to a rotary water pump, we go round and round, reviving feelings with every retelling; and how, each time we tell a story, it gets better, enriched with details, remembered or made up. This is absolutely the case here. Something that happened 20 years ago is more alive than ever.
Especially when I am in a bad mood and cooking – a regular occurrence in everyday life. As I chop onions aggressively, or rip the bag of dried mushrooms badly, so it doesn’t open. As I rip it for the second time, so they fall out, there she is in her silk shirt the colour of my loathing, leaning against the fridge. Cook with love, she says, as I soak 20g dried mushrooms in 200ml warm water for 30 minutes. Piss off, I reply as I lift them out, chop and set aside. Of course, you don’t have to be in a bad mood to make this recipe – a bit cross, tired or grumpy is fine; quite-a-good-mood is OK, too. I would, however, avoid making it if you are feeling particularly happy.
Like most stews, ragùs and braises (and resentment), this dish benefits from a rest, so the flavours can settle and deepen. It is delicious with rice or boiled potatoes. It is best of all, however, with pasta, especially long egg pasta – tagliatelle, fettuccine or pappardelle. For four, cook 450g dried or 600g fresh long pasta in well-salted water until al dente. Ladle a couple of scoops of the lentils into the bottom of a large, warm bowl. Lift the pasta on top, sprinkle over a handful of parmesan, then add a few more spoonfuls of lentils and toss well, adding a little pasta cooking water and tossing again if it seems stiff. Share between bowls and serve with more grated parmesan. Taste and tell the woman she is wrong: lentil and mushroom ragù cooked in a bad mood is the most delicious thing in the world.
Tagliatelle with lentil and mushroom ragù
Prep 30 min
Cook 50 min
Serves 4
20g dried porcini
Light stock or water
1 onion, peeled and finely diced
1 stick of celery, finely diced
1 carrot, peeled and finely diced
Salt and black pepper
1 bay leaf
5 tbsp olive oil
300g field or brown mushrooms, roughly chopped
A few sprigs of thyme
300g small brown lentils
A big glass red wine (250ml)
1 heaped tbsp tomato puree, mixed with a bit of warm water
450g dried or 600g fresh tagliatelle, fettuccine or pappardelle
Parmesan, grated, to finish
Soak the dried mushrooms in 200ml warm water for 30 minutes. Once soaked, lift the mushrooms out, chop and set aside. Filter the soaking liquid and add enough light stock or water to make it up to 1.2 litres.
In deep saute pan or casserole set over a medium-low heat, fry the onion, celery and carrot with a pinch of salt and a bay leaf in the olive oil until soft and translucent. Add both the fresh and soaked mushrooms and the thyme and cook, stirring, for a few minutes. Add the lentils, stir, then add the wine, tomato puree and diluted porcini liquid. Bring to a boil, then turn down to a lively simmer for 40 minutes, stirring often, until the lentils are tender and the consistency rich. If at any point during the cooking the mix seems dry, add a little more wine or water. Taste and check for salt and add a few grinds of black pepper.
Cook the pasta in well-salted water until al dente. Ladle a few scoops of lentils into the bottom of a warm bowl. Lift the pasta on top, sprinkle over a handful of parmesan, then add a few more spoonfuls of lentils. Toss well, adding a little pasta cooking water and tossing again if it seems stiff. Share between bowls and top with more grated parmesan.
